


Trefoil

by Liondragon (Sameshima_Shuzumi)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, M/M, Multi, OT3, Quiet, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2003-07-03
Updated: 2003-07-03
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:30:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3150689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sameshima_Shuzumi/pseuds/Liondragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's useless to pry the trio apart. <strong>The War's coming</strong>, the whispers say, so they let them be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trefoil

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted to Snitchfiction; Calliope was also kind enough to rec it in 2004. I have found no records from that period. This is the July 2003 posting, and it was later extended in November 2003 to this present form. Though it is marked unfinished, 12 years later there are no plans to complete it.
> 
> As with the following original heading, I have decided to refrain from commenting for tradition and contemplation's sake. Now as then, I will always be moved by the reaction to this story — _**thank you**_.
> 
> (2003 _mood: calm; music: Lost Cause - Beck? (headmusic)_ **NOTE TO READERS** : I apologize for not being able to respond to comments. For the moment I am taking a hiatus from writing... and well, _dealing_ with fanfiction, for various and RL reasons. I do appreciate it when you leave comments, and I'm so grateful that so many people enjoy the story. Please don't be offended if I don't get to you, because this is a special story and I'm glad to share it.   
>  Another Snitchfiction reprint. Will be archived, hooray! This is one of my never-ending fics... I'm putting it up again mainly to edit it and post-OP it. Feel free to critique.   
> Trio slash. That's right. I write it and love it. And much prefer it to any in-Trio pairs, because... _nobody's left out._ Kinda dreamy and meandering, very disjointed, but people seem to like it. A relaxing sort of first time fic.   
>  Characters and universe belong to J.K. Rowling. No income is made from this story. Unauthorized duplication and distribution prohibited.   
> I seem to be liking the plants for titles. [[trefoil to build](http://mathworld.wolfram.com/TrefoilKnot.html) :: [trefoil to heal](http://2bnthewild.com/plants/H157.htm)] This is an experimental fic, and not my usual domain; if you have comments or suggestions for this one, it would be appreciated.   
> Important: this *will* squick slash die-hards, and *will* squick het die-hards. You have been warned.   
> **Contains: Angst. Het. Slash. SEX.**

They cannot _not_ visit Hermione in her prefects' room, with her up at all hours with scroll and ink and towers of books. They need the privacy. Harry floats through the days in glassy-eyed quiet. (They do not push— all three are afraid of breaking him.) Ron is worried about his parents, his brothers, breathing the same air as Death Eaters. Hermione feels scuffed around the edges, brave but knowing her blood marks her for harm. 

So she lets them in. She spreads her homework on the floor, and the boys study on the bed. The silvery cloak devours a bedpost. 

For five years this hour has been their signal for sneaking and narrow escapes. Their bodies cannot help but thrum awake at midnight, primed for adventure. This time there's nowhere to go. The rules have tightened; their throats have tightened. It's too quiet, and this time _someone might die_. When Hermione dots her 'i' and rolls up the parchment, they don't leave. 

The other boys cover for Harry and Ron. Had it been just one of them, they'd have jeered, but it's both, and everyone in Gryffindor House knows it's useless to pry the three apart. _The War's coming_ , the whispers say, so they let them be. Harry might save them all. It's more than loyalty which compels them to do what they can for Harry. For the people who share his life, and his dangers. Selfishness goes a long way. 

Up in Hermione's tower-top room, they are learning not to be selfish. 

Ron is fidgety at first. It's not that he's scared of breaking the rules for a good cause. But as for the cause... Hermione's hair smells of roses, and she bites her lip. He has to look away every time. It's Harry who gets him to stay, shins knocking in the air as they sprawl on their stomachs. The boys murmur jokes and Quidditch stories over Hermione's head. She glares at them now and then, but her hand covers Harry's on the gold duvet. Harry is always shivering. This is their only chance to warm him. 

They each kiss her cheeks when they leave. 

* * * 

"Er..." 

Hermione looks up from her phalanx of notes. Harry has fallen asleep on Ron's shoulder. 

"Poor dear," Hermione whispers. "Well and knackered." She gently tugs Harry's Charms exercises. Ron reaches over and helps lift Harry's limbs out of the way. 

When she looks up again, the long, freckled arm is still draped over Harry's wide shoulders. Ron's cheeks are getting pink. She smiles, deftly plucking the eyeglasses off Harry's nose. "Stay here," she says. 

"You sure?" Harry is breathing softly on Ron's skin. 

"Yes." 

When she has double-checked her Arithmancy, Hermione settles on the other side of Harry, on her back. Her hair cascades over the edge. Ron thinks he sees the same weariness in her eyes as his own. 

She touches Ron's hand. "Are you comfortable?" 

Ron can't answer. When they're out in the corridors, grabbing meals in the Great Hall, kicking shins under the desks, peering over books in the library, there's a routine. This isn't in the script. 

It's so quiet. Harry's breathing softly. Ron doesn't like the look in her eyes, but he can't deny it. _We almost lost him last time._ There will be a next time. 

Harry has always been their strong link, like a precious stone on a pendant. It's Hermione who's spotted the change. As the candlelight plays over Hermione's rich walnut hair, Ron meets her gaze and realizes that it's not just Harry anymore. Five years have ground them diamond hard; they are together or not at all. 

They sleep on top of the sheets, and wake up warm. 

* * * 

The next night, it's Harry awake, and Hermione collapsed on his chest. It's been a rough day; she was nearly hexed trying to break up a duel among the second years. 

The boys look at each other. 

With large hands gone gentle, Ron pries off their shoes. 

* * * 

The third day is a Friday, and just as well. They spend their time in the common room, though it's a battle to get Hermione away from her History essay. The conversation shifts to Malfoy and his missing bodyguard. 

"It's Crabbe, not Goyle," Harry says. 

Dean snorts. "Malfoy looks unbalanced with just the one. Like he'll fall overboard any minute." 

"He's been quiet this year, eh, Harry?" Says Ron. Maybe last year's hexes on Hogwarts Express had muzzled their resident tormentor. 

"Malfoy? Yeah. But somehow that doesn't make me less paranoid." 

Hermione doesn't say anything. She's asked Goyle about his friend (she's not a Gryffindor for nothing.) The boy just shook his head, and said, "Not around Draco." _We don't talk about him anymore._ She can't be sure if it's grief or ostracism. Both? Hulking bully that he is, she doubts Vincent Crabbe is dead, and hopes he's safe. If even the Death Eaters' families are worried, she is worried too. 

She watches everyone now. Even her fellow Gryffindors. 

Later, Ron is putting away his chess set when Hermione pops in the boys' dorm. "Coming?" she asks. 

"Can't leave you alone with him," grins Ron, offering his arm. She takes it. 

"Hm, can't have that." Hermione sighs, and kisses him on the cheek. "At least you two aren't as blessedly clueless as last year." 

"We were not that clueless!" He opens the door. 

"We sort of were, Ron." Harry is sprawled on the bed. Hermione hits his chest till he gets up. 

"Now that you've noticed that I'm a girl, we're going to do this properly!" She pulls the sheets down and transfigures extra pillows. "You can change in the alcove." 

Harry's about to say something when Ron comes over and ruffles his hair. He's always been taller than Harry. He's starting to turn from gangly to graceful, and his voice has changed. "Bossy," Ron complains at her. 

"Practical," says Hermione. She looks at them, Harry leaning on Ron, Ron touching his shoulder. 

"What are you thinking, Hermione?" Harry sits, grasps Ron's hand, takes Hermione's. 

"Crabbe," she says. "Trust becoming a luxury, and not just for the Slytherins. The classes aren't enough to distract us, are they? Everyone knows the Ministry's hushing things up." She stops talking. They're not the precise words. _This is war._

"We'll stay," declares Ron, at length. 

"Bloody miraculous," laughs Harry, standing up and going for the alcove. 

"What is, Harry? And don't throw your robes on the floor." She leans on Ron, lets him touch her hair. 

"This is Hogwarts, not Beauxbatons. We're Brits. It's a wonder we can pat each other on the back and still look each other in the eye." 

Ron laughs too, and Hermione giggles. She raises her wand to lock the door. "We'll do this properly," she says again. 

They puppy-pile under her covers, laughing the laughter of weekend sleep, poking elbows and spitting out hair, till at last all is still. 

_This is love_. 

* * * 

They know where it's leading, but they're in no hurry. It's better this way— to have no secrets at night, and ease the separation by day. Hermione has fewer classes in common with the boys, and Harry is often called away for private training. Curfew is their time. 

For one thing, Hermione muses, they actually finish their homework before breakfast. 

When the door locks and the candles go out, they discover each other's secrets. Hermione has ticklish ankles. Ron knows two hundred limericks. Harry can touch his nose with his tongue. Lessons they can't learn in Hogsmeade over hot cider, because it's too dangerous to go out. 

The boys stash extra toothbrushes and nightclothes in the bottom drawer. Hermione educates them on the finer points of a girl's wardrobe. Harry produces an enchanted die to determine bathroom order. There's the inevitable scene of showing hers, showing theirs, and they get the giggles out of their system. The shock of sudden warmth and tangled limbs becomes a familiar comfort. 

Tonight: they've already commiserated over Potions take-home exams. The twins thought they saw a silver-pawed rat at the shop, and called the Ministry. Harry was nearly cornered in a hidden staircase by a pack of seventh year Slytherins. 

"May I?" Harry says. Hermione is between them. 

She nods. They all three listen to the sounds she makes, Harry's nimble fingers tracing the curves that weren't there before. 

When she kisses Harry, Ron steadies her with hands on her waist. They draw closer. 

"So tired," Hermione whispers. 

"Shhh," Ron says. 

* * * 

Hermione comes back late to find Harry and Ron kissing in the alcove. 

She's been called a Mudblood whore to her face today. The sight of them fills up that empty space she's carried since then. She knows better than to ask why. It's faster with boys, and they themselves might not know. 

"Come to bed," she says. They startle, and she laughs. "Come on. It's warmer." She locks the door. 

* * * 

They hate it when they fight. Hermione's eyes prickle when the boys yell and shove. Ron mumbles under his breath and tries to joke when she glares at Harry. It's the worst for Harry, though, a tiny crack in the foundations of his world when Ron and Hermione snipe like fettered animals. His cupboard's far away, this time. 

"We have to make rules," Harry says one night. 

They're struck dumb by this. Even Harry looks surprised. Somehow it legitimizes the arrangement. 

"All right," Hermione says slowly. She has no idea where to begin. Her hands fumble, wanting a book for this unknown language. 

Ron stares at his slippers. "How about, whoever's fighting has to hug?" He blushes. 

"Er," says Harry. 

"My mum used to say that," Ron offers. 

Hermione squeezes between them. They like having her on their laps, and she's grown to like it. Not clueless at all, this year. "We could try?" 

Harry leans in, nuzzling her neck. "We've all three got horrid tempers." 

"I've rubbed off, I see," grins Ron. 

"You could say that, dear," says Hermione, and they chuckle. "We'll try it. Then we'll talk, all right? No stalking about with a stormcloud overhead." 

Ron pokes Harry. "Yeah." 

Harry sticks his tongue out and instantly they're knotted up again. It's not even time for bed. 

She's so close that she knows Ron's cinnamon and clover, Harry's dirt and peppermint. Their hearts thud through her chest. "I don't understand," Hermione chokes out. 

"Neither do we," Harry says, for all of them. "Can't be worse than out there, right?" 

* * * 

Harry doesn't like being the weak link. Part of him is still scared he's not a real wizard... that he'll fail his parents' legacy. The scar on his brow is a glorified bull's eye. Standing out, he always falls short of fitting in. 

He loves their bedtime routines. He could spend all evening curled up on Hermione's lap, or treated to Ron's backrubs, or just... grazing fingers, kissing shoulders, brushing ankles under the covers. 

Some nights it's too much. He sits back and watches them kiss, thrilled that they're comfortable enough to let him see, terrified that he'll never be able to _fit_. Hermione bosses them as much as ever, her maturity giving her a bit more control. Ron is just glad to have something that's his: an affirmation of equality. 

Harry doesn't know where to be. 

Is he gay? Is he straight and experimenting? Is he bisexual? He feels the Muggle-ness of the words. Hermione's surety and Ron's enthusiasm stop him from asking. 

They are quite lovely when they kiss. "Harry," Ron says, stroking her belly. "C'mon, mate." 

There are millstones in his stomach. He gets up, grabs the cloak, and is out the door. 

* * * 

"Hey." Ron's awake when he returns. Hermione is curled up in bed, alone. "Walked it off?" 

They sit in the alcove's window seat. The cloak has eaten up Harry's ankles, and he stares at the dented cushions under his invisible feet. "I guess." 

"No stormclouds, she said." Ron's smile is a flash in the darkness, tinder catching in the night. 

Harry leans on the cold panes. He can feel the wards pushing on the glass. "Is this normal?" 

Ron is suddenly shy. Harry can tell by the way he scrubs at the hem of his shirt, lip worried between his teeth, and even the lines of his shoulders spelling out _aw shucks._ "Harry. I. Um, well, y'see, I'd wondered." 

"Wondered." Ron glances up, and Harry imagines that his own body reads _recognition._

"It... it didn't seem so bad. I mean. Well." 

"Not a horrible thing to think," Harry adds, cheeks warming. 

"Yes, but..." 

"Didn't want to leave her out." 

Ron grins, beatific, like the day they brained a mountain troll among the three of them. Harry's heart is certainly beating as fast as then. 

"Ron, listen. This won't ruin us, right?" It's not a question. "The three of us, we'll be friends." 

And there comes a moment when it's too much to bear: your best friend looking at you from across the window seat and sharing the knowledge that you'd die for him. A secret that tremendous could burst out and make the sun rise at midnight, but it's just them. Just Harry and Ron. They are terribly glad Hermione can share the enormity of it with them. (They suspect she has always known.) 

It's a good thing they've figured out the nose thing already. Ron is more careful when he kisses Harry. But Harry is drowning fast, and he doesn't care about pedestals. Just Ron's lips and his long leg folded against him and the warmth of his hand on his right cheek, the cool of the window on his left. 

Ron squeaks. 

Harry has to laugh. "Didn't think I would, did you?" 

He's red to match his hair, but he's digging through Harry's robes in a second. "C'mere, you." 

"Nngh, it's not a Snitch—" 

"Shut up, Harry Potter," says Ron, and Harry's nerves dissolve under his kiss. They scrabble and buck, learning to talk with different lips and tongues. Harry's glasses are getting smudged. Ron manages to nudge the precious cloak off the seat, and he rises, drawing closer, so that Harry tips up to kiss him. 

It's glorious to feel so unashamed. They let their fingers do the exploring, the measuring, and their moans quaver softly with laughter. _I give this to you._ Interminable heat, enthralling rhythm, the shot of sparks which surely must be _magic_. Harry hugs Ron to him, overwhelmed. Ron turns his head; they glance at Hermione — sleeping soundly — and are suddenly glad to do this first with each other, all rough edges and boys' play. 

So they don't hold back. Pumping fists and hard kisses, hips snapping up and down, all their lives on the tip of their tongues. They are both used to being quiet; all it takes is one escaped cry and they're breaking _hold tight hold tight._

* * * 

After, Harry rests his shoulder on Ron's chest. His back is against the wall. Ron's breathing on his forehead, inches from another kiss. Harry wipes his hand, reaches under the robes to stroke Ron's flank. Ron is so much taller, broad and long-limbed. It's dark and warm. Ron is a solid enclosure around him, and Harry thinks, _this is what it means to be safe and needed._ He didn't think it could happen at the same time. 

He reckons it's all right for Ron to be the protector. It's taken him years to figure that. 

And at last they cross those inches, and Ron's whispering something. 

"Harry... Harry, I'm sorry, Harry." 

"What?" 

Arms squeeze tight. "I was so stupid. I should have known. I _am_ rich." 

* * * 

They nearly jump out of their socks when Hermione, half-asleep, points her wand at them. At bed-level. 

" _Immacula_ ," she mumbles. Even with her eyes shut, the spell's just right. 

Ron and Harry look at each other. 

"...sh'nt dirt' the quil'..." says Hermione into her hair. "Feet cold," she adds, more distinctly. 

They pull back her grandmother's quilt. They don't need to be told twice. 

* * *

Ironically, the outside situation begins to fall apart when Draco Malfoy is taken.

Invited to his initiation, they say. Caught by the Ministry, they say. Run away from his father, they say. Smuggled to Italy by his mother, they say.

"What do _they_ know," complains Hermione. 

The Trio huddles closer now. The puzzle pieces gleaned from Harry's dream, the Weasleys evacuated from the Burrow, and Draco's own fevered words to Hermione after the last prefect meeting— put together, it's not something they'd wish on their worst enemy.

Though it's too good for Tom Riddle.

Harry says as much when Dumbledore obliquely hints at them, eyes alarmingly calm, to keep their conclusions to themselves.

They go one further. They keep to themselves, an armored shell of three and twos when they walk each other to class, and a warm, quivering _one_ behind Hermione's bed curtains.

"If one Malfoy heir doesn't count for anything, how much more the rest of us!" says Ron, when Hermione asks why he was taking it so hard. Harry silences him with a kiss.

It's a different thing for Hermione to be privy to the boys' antics. Usually she lets them have their privacy; boys are boys. She's resigned to that. But tonight, watching them pull at each other, she feels curiously hot, on the edge of discomfort. She wants to take her blouse off. For the first time she feels odd and exhilarated, like an egg on a high wall, or a woman.

"Are you all right, Hermione," Harry says. Ron looks belatedly guilty. Hermione can only think how kiss-swollen Harry's lips are, how Ron's blush spreads down his neck.

And she hiccups, or sobs, or something that draws them to her side. It all feels so stupid and breakable, with the monsters thronging beyond the walls, that she's made them stop something so beautiful. It feels unsafe, and she wants to feel anything but that.

For once, Ron says exactly the right thing. "C'mon, Hermione. You're lovely."

Her insides feel like Elastic Taffy. She gets a hold of herself, and looks from one to the other. It dawns on her, as her fingers speed Harry's breathing, that she's ashamed of wanting. They are waiting for her explanation. As they always do. 

"All together?" she asks. The boys immediately know what she means. No— Ron does and Harry does.

Harry kisses her brow. It's easier to speak up now in spaces where he'd have ordinarily kept silent. "It's always seemed equal."

Ron lays a hand on her thigh. When she shivers, so does he. "You don't have a problem with the two of us, do you, luv?"

Her eyes flutters at the endearment. "No, no..."

"The two of us, she means. I mean," Harry's hands wave between them, trying to demonstrate the complex arithmetic they've built. "Ron, if I... if we, er, Hermione and I..."

Ron's eyes flash briefly. _Yes. Of course I would be jealous._ "And you?" He says after a moment.

Harry looks away. Not quite incriminating, but it still twinges.

Hermione tugs them for a kiss each, her hands knotted in their shirts. "It's strange with just one of you. I've gotten used to it..." she trails off and shakes her head. "I can't say 'I' when I say this. It makes it seem like 'Hermione has two boyfriends' or 'Harry's shagging them—'"

"Not that I have."

"Or, 'Ron Weasley's got them both on his string.'" Ron plops down, bouncing the bed. "I get it. So what happens if one of us..."

_All the king's horses and all the king's men._

Harry takes off his glasses and captures Hermione's lips. Ron watches, thinking Harry really loves kisses. Harry's voice is soft and pensive when he pulls away.

"With you, Hermione, it's like warmth and," he struggles, "sweets and fairy lights and Christmas. But it... with Ron, it _tingles._ "

Hermione swallows. "I feel that way about you, Harry. Ron... you're my comfort."

Ron's lips tighten. He doesn't need to say that he's always wanted Hermione.

They sit back and contemplate this triangle they've created. It's almost a relief that they've found out this way. That still doesn't simplify this daisy chain: he wants him who wants her who wants him; she loves him who loves him who loves her.

"Mum," Ron says, "will go spare."

Harry's eyes widen at the thought of the three of them arriving at the Burrow (when it is safe, not if), and greeting Mrs. Weasley as a 'them'. As an _item_. Being subjected to the brothers' teasing, Mr. Weasley's flabbergasted reaction, Mrs. Weasley's oblique hints about grandchildren.

He glances at Ron and Hermione and sees they've been hit by the same Bludger. It's too late for second thoughts. 'We're a _we_.'

"Right," says Hermione at last. The boys look relieved, and she nearly laughs at their transparency. "If something happens to one, we're going to stay friends."

"And no stormclouds," Harry quips, but his eyes are serious.

"If it's two..." Hermione gasps aloud when they both take her in their arms. She buries her face on Ron's neck, cradles Harry's cheek. _If Voldemort takes two of us, it can't be put together again._ "If it's two, then whoever's left should grieve and move on. No stormclouds there either," she nags. There's a shaky laugh.

Ron tips her chin up and kisses her deeply, hungrily, as though kisses will stop the world. He's stubborn— then so are they. Harry, having discerned the look on Hermione's face when this started, begins to undo her buttons. He touches her skin as it's revealed, feeling her shiver. He has another thought: of a well-lit cottage with a pond and a garden and a tree with a tyre swing and three chairs at the breakfast nook and three broomsticks at the door.

He'd share this thought, if not for the pressing matter of soft skin and thick hair and that smooth spot on the small of her back. He and Ron exchange looks as she settles. If they're three now, there's no stopping them from planning a surprise for the one.  
  
---


End file.
